the hill looks over the town
well wishers and suicides drink
the image of a landmass once empty
now somehow deflated,
riding the boom and bust
in our car feathers once used
hang softly, mechanically from
a pentacle catching images,
dust-covered dreams come and gone
across the days and nights of the town
Thanks for checking out my poem.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!